And the (Occasional) Benefits of Idiocy
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: Ezekiel knows why he's in the hospital. Yep, that's because he was an idiot and got himself a piece of a bullet in his arm on their last mission, brilliant thief he is. What he doesn't know is why Jake is sitting with him, or why Jake's dæmon is letting him use her as a pillow. Yeah, he needs an explanation here.


When Ezekiel woke up, it felt like his pillow was rising and falling under him, and he felt fuzzy and warm all over the place. His arm felt stiff and immobile from shoulder to fingertips, but he had a feeling if he tried moving, it'd hurt like a whore. There was a tightness in his back, like a shoe laced too tight, that said he had stitches; nothing felt quite like stitches. He didn't open his eyes yet, feeling the slow rise and fall of his pillow, which was also very warm and felt quite solid.

For a moment, he couldn't understand why his arm hurt, or why he would have stitches in his back of all places, but then it started coming back to him in fuzzy bits and pieces. Magic artifact cursed by Morgan le Fay, breaking and entering, lots of running, hired goons with serious anger issues shooting at them, and a ricochet bullet in his arm, followed by getting knocked on his arse in broken glass. Right. Not cool, mate.

His fingers twitched a little, searching for Griselda, but he could only feel sheets, and the slight, warm weight of her was absent from his chest. Slowly, his lashes parted, eyes gritty and blurry from sleep.

Jake was sitting in a chair pulled up to his bedside, and to his surprise, the cowboy had his head bowed, hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer, eyes closed. Ezekiel looked back down at himself, looking for Griselda, but she wasn't lying next to him at all. However, there was a long, stripy tail lying next to his bandaged arm in its sling, twitching slightly. Right next to a set of paws the size of frying pans, also stripy. He turned his head to the left slowly, feeling the stitches tighten a little with the movement.

Clio lay curled behind him, and his head and shoulders were pillowed against her broad flank. Ezekiel blinked a few times, muzzily, not sure if he was just on some very good drugs or what. But Clio felt very solid and real, and the thick, warm, fuzzy feeling that had settled over the surface of his skin made a lot more sense now. She turned her gaze to him, chartreuse eyes boring into him. "Ever do anything so stupid again, Ezekiel Jones, and I'll bite you," she informed him, and he could feel the vibration of her words through his back.

Jake lifted his head at the sound of his dæmon's voice, and he stood up to move closer to the bedside. He placed one hand atop Clio's head, the other hand resting on the sheets beside Ezekiel's. "Hey, Jonesy. 'Bout time you woke up," the cowboy said quietly, his accent going broad and thick the way it only did when he was upset about something. There was a lump in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt that moved, and then Griselda's head popped out, peering out at him with big dark eyes. Oh. _Oh._

"Hey," Ezekiel replied, still a little fuzzy because this couldn't really be happening this way, right? He was just on some very, _very_ good drugs at the moment.

Griselda crawled out of Jake's pocket and scuttled down his arm to nuzzle underneath Ezekiel's fingers. The cowboy stroked Clio's ears slowly, and he could feel her purr vibrate down the length of his backbone.

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Ezekiel," Jake said on a sudden exhale of breath, startling him. He couldn't remember ever hearing Jake use profanity like that before. Or addressing him by his first name, either. There was a whole slew of firsts going on today. Jake's free hand moved to Ezekiel's wrist and squeezed tightly. "If you ever, _ever_ …scare me like that again…." He blew out a heavy breath, shook his head. "Christ."

"Didn't think you cared that much, cowboy," Ezekiel said slowly even as Griselda nipped sharply on his fingertips.

Jake squeezed his wrist again, this time hurting a little bit, and Clio growled at him, the resonating snarl making his insides feel like Jell-O. His eyes bored into Ezekiel's so directly that he felt like he ought to take the words back, blue irises so dark they were almost black, the foreboding colour of an ocean about to produce a wave big enough to wipe out a coastal town. "Don't you _ever_ say I don't care, Ezekiel. You're an arrogant, cocky little punk with no brain-to-mouth filter and a bigger pain in the ass than hemorrhoids…and you're also _my_ pain in the ass. I don't always get along with you, Ezekiel, but I never want you hurt. You got me?" he asked in a low growl that sounded very much like his dæmon. When Ezekiel didn't immediately answer, Jake tightened his grip again, hard enough to make the little bones in his wrist move. _"You got me?"_

"Yeah. Yeah, mate. I got you," Ezekiel rasped out.

"Good." Jake slackened his grip again, his fingers becoming…almost caressing, sliding down his wrist a little. Another inch, and they'd be holding hands.

Ezekiel put his head back against Clio, feeling her warmth soaking into him. The longer he was awake, the more his head cleared and the more he realised. He was touching Jake's dæmon, and not a little bit. And Jake was touching _his_ dæmon, too, like it was no big deal. And it wasn't painful or uncomfortable—it felt _good,_ like, really good. The cowboy shook his head again, a wry little smile twisting the corner of his mouth, and his callused fingers traced along the delicate skin on the inside of Ezekiel's wrist, feather-light yet so rough. Ezekiel couldn't remember Jake ever touching him for any length of time unless it was absolutely necessary, but here he was practically holding hands with the man, and boy, he must be on the good stuff. He'll be waking up in a moment, surely.

Griselda crawled out from beneath his fingers and scurried back up Jake's arm to his shoulder. "He's being thick again," she informed him succinctly, the traitor.

"Is he now?" Clio rumbled. "Jacob, explain it to him, then."

Jake arched an eyebrow at Ezekiel. "Still think it's the morphine, huh?" he asked, a little pointlessly. "Alright. I was gonna wait until we at least went out to dinner or somethin', but if you're gonna be stubborn, Zeke."

Hey, since when was he 'Zeke'? Or 'Jonesy,' for that matter? What—

His brain short-circuited mid-thought at the warm pressure of Jake's mouth on his own, but then Griselda nipped him sharply and he remembered how to function, leaning up into the kiss a little. Jake hummed happily against his lips, his fingers lacing with Ezekiel's on the bedsheets, squeezing tightly. Ezekiel started to lift his other hand to Jake's hair but broke off with a pained hiss at the jarring pain in his arm, radiating from fingertips to shoulder.

"You alright?" Jake asked lowly, still leaning over him.

"Yeah, fine," Ezekiel replied, even though he would very gladly put up with an achy arm because _holy fuck, Jake Stone just bloody kissed him, hell yes!_

"Good." The cowboy kissed him again, light and teasing, before straightening up. He looked about to say something, but his mobile started buzzing insistently. Frowning, he pulled the device from his pocket. "Damn. It's Baird, she needs me back at the Annex," he muttered, pocketing the mobile again. "I'm gonna go see what she needs, and when I get back, we can go to Frangelico's for dinner."

"Why?" Ezekiel asked oh-so-intelligently, noticing the use of 'we.'

"Because I'm hungry and I haven't been in a while," the other man replied with amused exasperation colouring his voice.

"Monster ate my wallet."

Jake rolled his eyes. "It's called a fucking date, Ezekiel. I pay for you."

"Oh." Well now he felt a little stupid. But who could blame him? Making out with Jake lowered his IQ by at least twenty points, and the morphine wasn't helping, either. "Bit aggressive, aren't you, cowboy?" he asked, hoping to recover a little. "Where's that famous Southern charm of yours?"

"I prefer straight to the point," Jake answered loftily. "And we Southern gentleman save our charm for the wooing of fine ladies, not punk-ass thieves." Clio chortled as she eased out from behind Ezekiel's back, letting him sit back against the actual hospital bed, which wasn't nearly as warm or comfortable as her.

"And how exactly do you intend to woo me, then?" Ezekiel asked as Griselda scampered up his arm to tuck herself under his chin.

"By kissing you until you shut up for once."

"Solid plan. Think you ought to give it a go now."

"Maybe later." Jake squeezed his hand lightly. "Get some sleep, Jonesy."

Ezekiel sank back against his not-as-comfy pillows obediently, eyes sinking closed as Jake made for the door, Clio gliding along silently beside him. Griselda was practically humming with joy, and he was still smiling when he fell asleep.

* * *

The next day, he was discharged from the hospital, and Ezekiel almost thought it really was some kind of very vivid drug-induced dream.

Until Jake took him to dinner and then made good on his promise of 'wooing' Ezekiel in his truck. And on the walk-up to his flat. And in his bedroom, too.

* * *

Jacob Stone—Clio, Sumatran tiger; Clio is the Grecian Muse of history, called "the proclaimer, glorifier and celebrator of history."  
Ezekiel Jones—Griselda, sugar glider; Griselda means 'grey maiden,' and is the name of a famous art historian as well as a notorious criminal.


End file.
